


Think It Could Work

by apliddell



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Drabble, Ficlet, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Parentlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-20
Updated: 2015-10-07
Packaged: 2018-03-18 17:44:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 4,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3578289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apliddell/pseuds/apliddell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A fluffy collection of parentlock drabbles and ficlets inspired by the Sherlock RP characters created by me and my dear friend and writing partner. No particular order to these. Crossposted with tumblr and often inspired by prompts. If you would like me to write a prompt for this series, please send me an ask on my blog at captain-liddy.tumblr.com!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheBoredWriter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBoredWriter/gifts).



John’s face is the most shining thing I’ve ever seen. I can scarcely look at him. He’s incandescent. Dazzling and irresistible, and I can’t look away, even as my eyes prick and fill. The Registrar invites us to join hands, and John presses mine eagerly as we do.  
The Registrar smiles at us both and looks at me, “Are you, William Sherlock Scott Holmes, lawfully free to marry John Hamish Watson?”  
"I am," my voice is low and soft and John presses my hands.  
The Registrar looks at John, “Are you, John Hamish Watson lawfully free to marry William Sherlock Scott Holmes?”  
John nods, his smile broadening still more, “I am.”  
The Registrar turns to look at me expectantly.  
Draw a long breath, “I-” my voice breaks and my eyes spill over. John raises one of my hands and kisses it. Draw a long breath. Try again, “I, W-” my voice is a shaky little nothing, and my face is starting to go warm. Out among our guests, there is a little commotion, then the sound of tiny feet. Matilda has torn her hand out of Mummy’s and come pelting toward me. As I turn to look, she launches herself at me and locks her arms round my right leg. Her little crown of blue flowers slips down over one ear when she looks over her shoulder at John and she tears it off and tosses it away impatiently, “Daddy,” she says, her sweet voice heavy with reproach, “Bab is _crying_!” An affectionate titter runs through the room, and Matilda turns her head to look at them without letting go of me and stamps her foot, “Stop that! That’s not nice!”  
"Oh sweetheart," John begins, "It’s all right."  
I drop slightly unsteadily to one knee, and Matilda releases my leg and wraps her arms round my neck, bringing the trailing sash of her dress up to dab my eyes, “Did you hurt yourself, Bab?” she whispers.  
I shake my head and my voice is nearly steady when I reply, “No, Tillie, I haven’t hurt myself, darling.”  
Matilda kisses my cheek, “Are you sad, Bab?”  
I kiss hers, “No, Tillie. Thank you, darling.”  
"Why are you crying, Bab?"  
Matilda dabs my face again, and I smile, “I’m very happy, darling. Sometimes grownups cry when they’re really, really happy.”  
Matilda cocks her head, her forehead furrowing, “That’s silly.”  
"Yes, darling, I’m a bit silly today." I give Matilda’s cheek another kiss, and she lays her head on my shoulder and pats my head.  
John kneels as well and puts a hand on either of our shoulders, “Tillie, Bab and me are going to get married now, love.” He looks up at the Registrar, “Can she stay? Is it okay if he holds her?”  
She nods with a smile, “Oh yes, that’ll be just fine. Are we ready to continue?” John rises and offers me his hand, and I take his and stand, Matilda still holding onto my neck.  
John takes my free hand in both of his, and I find I can smile back into his luminous face, “I, William Sherlock Scott Holmes take thee, John Hamish Watson to be my wedded husband.”


	2. Chapter 2

"Something’s wrong!" Sherlock meets me as I walk through the door of our flat with a fussing and red-faced Matilda in his arms. "She’s been like this all day. She doesn’t have a fever. She isn’t hungry or cold or wet or dirty. I tried taking her out in the pram. I tried walking her up and down the room. I played for her. She doesn’t want anything except to squawk, and I’ve no idea what to do, John. Help us!"  
"Ohh, my lovelies." I hang up my coat and kiss first Sherlock, then Matilda. "Are you having a difficult day? Let me just have a quick wash, and I’ll take her, love." Sherlock nods and begins to pace the room, dandling Matilda gently in his arms. Tillie fusses mournfully and clutches at his shirt. My poor darlings. They both look exhausted. I make for the bathroom and wash my hands and face, then come and take Matilda out of Sherlock’s arms. "Now what’s wrong, lovely?" I give her damp little cheek a kiss and wipe away her drying tears with my thumb.  
"Da da da da," Tillie sings sadly, rubbing at her ears.  
"Yes, sweetheart, Daddy’s going to help you, hmm?" Sherlock leans in briefly to dab the drool on her chin with a cloth. Tillie grabs at his fingers and drags them toward her mouth, but Sherlock gently extricates himself. "Actually. That might be just the thing," I say. "I think she’s teething."  
"Teething?" Sherlock’s face is still rather furrowed with concern.  
I give him a kiss, “Yeah, you can see where it’s coming in.” I point at Tillie’s lower gumline, and she pulls my finger into her mouth and bites down quite hard. It doesn’t hurt much, and it seems to soothe her quite a bit, so I let her chomp at me. “Is your poor little mouth inflamed, Tillie? That feels better, doesn’t it?” I look up at Sherlock. “Rinse out the cloth, then chuck it in the freezer, love. She can chew on that at bedtime, and the cold will take the swelling down.”  
"It’s only teething?"  
"Just teething, love." I kiss him again. "Tillie, let’s get your Bab fed, shall we? Don’t you think he looks hungry?"  
"I can take her, if you’re cooking, John." Sherlock holds out his arms eagerly, but I give Tillie a smacking kiss on the top of her head, and she clutches the hand she’s holding to her mouth a bit tighter.  
"Oh we’re all right," I say, drawing a bit closer to Sherlock, so that he can put his arm round us. "Tillie and I were going to pop down to Speedy’s actually and get some of that soup we all like. I thought maybe you’d like a bit to yourself."  
"Oh," Sherlock’s arm tightens around me. "Thank you, John. But not just yet. Stay a moment, if you don’t mind. Don’t go just yet."  
"Here I am, love," I raise my face and he kisses me. "For as long as you want me. I’m not going anywhere."


	3. Chapter 3

"Stop that! You stop it now!"  
Matilda’s voice rises above the playpark din, and I look up in time to see her stamp her foot at a little boy with a handful of stones. The boy takes no notice and cocks his arm, aiming one of the stones at the pond, where there are a number of ducks swimming in the middle of it. “Stop!” Matilda shouts again. I rise from the bench and make for them. There’s that Watson set to her shoulders that bodes ill for the other child. Unfortunately, the boy is determined to be horrible. He throws the stone, and Tillie rugby tackles him, knocking him to the ground.  
"Matilda!" I should have seen it coming, really. "Get off at once!"  
Tillie doesn’t budge, “My father is here!” she tells the boy she’s pinned, “And he’s going to put you in jail for killing ducks! He’s a detective; that’s what he does to killers!”  
The boy begins to cry, “I didn’t hit any of them. I only wanted to see if I could.”  
I’ve reached the children now, and I lift Matilda off the other boy and set her on her feet, “Matilda, I told you to get off at once; didn’t you hear me?”  
Tillie is glaring at me, “He was going to kill one of them, Bab! I had to stop him!”  
That is quite a snag in my lecture. Frown and draw breath to reply when we are interrupted by the arrival of the stone-thrower’s mother.  
"What exactly is going on here?" She takes little Stone-Thrower by the hand and jerks him to his feet, glaring round at Matilda. "What have you done to my John?"  
Matilda looks up at me in outrage that her adversary should have a name he so clearly has not earned. “I might ask you the same,” I say, taking Tillie’s hand. “Are you aware that your son was throwing stones at the ducks?”  
Mrs Stone-Thrower looks down at her progeny in angry astonishment, “Is that true, John?”  
"Yes," (small and naughty) John mumbles. "I didn’t hit any of them!"  
"Right, we are going home. You just wait until your father hears about this, young man." Mrs Stone-Thrower frog-marches (sulky) John out of sight, tutting energetically.  
I turn to Matilda, “Matilda when you see some one doing something wrong, you fetch me or your dad; you do not push people. Is that understood?”  
Matilda’s eyes are welling up, and she has her chin tucked to her chest, “He could have killed one, Bab!”  
Drop to one knee to look into her face, “Matilda, when you get into fights, there’s a good chance you’ll hurt some one or yourself, and that’s not the way to bring about good things.” Tillie nods and her tears spill over. She sniffs and swabs at her eyes with the back of one hand. Find a clean but crumpled tissue in my pocket and offer it to her, but she only wraps her arms around my neck and buries her face against my shoulder. I pat her back. “Tillie, I’m always proud of you for trying to do right. I will always help you with that, darling. You don’t need to fight.”  
Matilda nods against my shoulder, “Okay.” She gives a great sniff, then a little sigh. I hug her a bit tighter. “Do I have to tell Daddy?”  
"You know you do, Tillie."  
Matilda nods again, “Will he be cross with me?”  
"Well. Daddy doesn’t want you to fight either. But he doesn’t really get cross with you, does he? Not really."  
Matilda brightens and hugs me again, “No, not really.”


	4. Chapter 4

I must have been asleep because suddenly I was dimly aware of Sherlock murmuring something in my ear, and I shifted up a bit, leaning toward Sherlock and stretching my legs out toward the fire. My feet needed toasting.  
"Eh? What’s that, love?"  
"I said next Christmas, she’ll be big enough to play in the snow." Matilda was asleep in Sherlock’s lap with her cheek pressed against his belly, and he patted her back lightly. "A bit. We can do snow angels."  
That sent a warm little thrill through my middle, and I grinned. “Yeah? And a snow man.”  
"My mother’ll squeeze an entire season’s worth of traditions into Christmas Eve, and we’ll all be exhausted and gasping for mercy by the end of it," said Sherlock fondly, stroking Matilda’s back and resting his head against mine.  
"Ambitious," I said. "Tell me about an entire season’s worth of traditions."  
"Oh you know," Sherlock said. He took a deep breath and rattled off, "Gingerbread men, choosing and trimming the platonic ideal of a Christmas tree, hanging stockings, mulled everything—which helps, actually—carols, pie, too much pie, panto, making everyone gather to listen to Daddy read A Visit from St Nicholas which is preceded by making everybody spread out and look for Daddy’s glasses, pulling crackers, presents, roasting chestnuts, and silly hats if she’s feeling particularly ruthless. My mother is pathologically jolly."  
I grinned through his recital. “That sounds brilliant, honestly,” I said.  
Sherlock grinned as well, “It’s picturesque. I’ll allow that. What’s a Watson Christmas like?”  
"Well," I put my hand on Sherlock’s knee, and he shifted Matilda a bit to cover my hand with his. "After it was just me and Mum and Harry, we’d go and spend Christmas with my mum’s mum, and she’d take us to Mass on Christmas Eve. We didn’t necessarily do much of the other stuff. Sometimes there was a tree, and sometimes there wasn’t. Sometimes there was a really nice dinner, and sometimes there wasn’t. Sometimes there were presents and sometimes there weren’t, you know? Mum usually didn’t have much money. But there was the music and the Nativity and the candles. That was every year." Sherlock listened silently, his thumb lightly stroking the edge of mine. "Not that we need to do that, necessarily. I think when we hit on something that suits us, we’ll know." Sherlock nodded and lifted his hand from mine to stroke Matilda’s back. I leaned in to kiss her, and we were quiet for a moment. "She’s had such a lot of upheaval in her life already," My voice was starting to go a bit wispy, and I cleared my throat. "Good to have some ritual, I think. It can be sort of, er. Grounding. I want Matilda to have something solid to think of when she looks back on time with her parents," I took Sherlock’s hand and pressed it, and he squeezed back very hard. "You know?" I could tell before I spoke (by the pricking in my eyes) that my voice would be wispy again, but I pressed on anyway, "Sometimes the memories just. Are too ethereal? Do you know what I mean?"  
Sherlock kissed me and nodded. “Yes, John.” He squeezed my hand again.  
My eyes were about to spill over at that point, but I managed, “I’m so happy that I get to do this with you, Sherlock.”  
Sherlock pressed my hand and kissed it and answered in a whisper, “Yes, John. So am I.” And I crowded in a bit closer and leaned against him, and he put his arm around my shoulder. And it was a long time or a short time—it can be difficult to tell on Christmas Eve—but I drifted off again, warmed by the fire and propped against the two people I love most in the world.


	5. Chapter 5

"Daddy, I’m tired," Matilda tugs at John’s arm, and he turns to her and smiles.  
"I really don’t think we’re going to get a cab in this state, Tillie." John is grass-stained and mud-spattered, as are we all after our little turn in the park that turned into tag that turned (somehow) into a mud fight. "Still, I think I might give you a lift." John drops to one knee, and Matilda hops onto his back. John rises to standing again, and they both shift about to get their bearing. "Comfy?"  
Matilda nods, “Mmmyep!” She grins at me, “Bab’s the caboose!”  
Laugh and give her plait a flick, “Dreadful child. You two bully me horribly.”   
Matilda giggles and gives my shoulder a magnanimously sympathetic pat, “It’s all right, Bab. Here, you can hold my hand, so you don’t get lost.”  
I take her muddy little hand and kiss it, “Thank you, Tillie.”  
John sort of prances in place, “Come on, lovelies. Let’s get ourselves home. I’ve got this funny feeling that bath time is going to take ages tonight.”   
I make them a little bow, “By all means, lead the way John.”  
"Right, then!" John tilts toward me and kisses me on the cheek, "Forward march!" And off we march home, muddy and laughing and singing.


	6. Chapter 6

John creases his brow and cocks his head, “It’s a bit. Big.”  
“It’s a piano, John,” Sherlock gives him a little pinch.  
“I sort of thought you might come back with another keyboard,” John glances at Matilda, “But this is, er. Very handsome.” Sherlock gives him another pinch, but it is mutually understood to be a much more affectionate one than the first.  
Matilda nudges between them and clambers onto the bench, “Are we going to do duets, Bab?”  
Sherlock sits next to her on the bench, “Absolutely, Tillie,” he taps out a little of ‘Heart and Soul.’  
Matilda rolls her eyes but taps back, “No, Bab, the piano is for me. You don’t know how to play it.”  
“I beg your pardon!” Sherlock goes into ‘Chopsticks’ and Matilda begins to nudge him off the bench.  
“Daddy,” Matilda throws an appealing look at John.  
John laughs, “I’ve never been able to do a thing with him, Tillie.”  
Sherlock tumbles off the piano bench and claps a hand to his heart, “John, our daughter has bullied me to death.” He shuts his eyes. Matilda giggles and begins to play Chopin’s funeral march.   
“Ooh!” Sherlock hops up and joins in on his violin.  
John laughs and takes his chair, “Do The Swan after? I like that one.”  
“Boop, boop!” Mrs Hudson chirps from the doorway, knocking on their open door. “Just thought I’d pop up and check on you, dearies.”  
John turns toward Mrs Hudson and smiles, “We’re fine. Feeling musical, as you can see.”  
“Oh yes!” Mrs Hudson comes in and pats John on the shoulder, “I heard a bang through the ceiling, then the music, and I’d thought they’d finally done you in!”  
Matilda and Sherlock laugh and bring their playing to an end, with a particularly crashing flourish from Matilda.  
Sherlock lowers his instrument and gestures with his bow to Matilda, who rises from the stool and bows, then goes and puts her arms around John, “We wouldn’t do anything to Daddy.”  
“Never,” Sherlock agrees, joining the little group around John’s chair, “We need an audience.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To John Watson from Sherlock Holmes on the anniversary of the latter's disappearance.

My John,  
Today is not a day that ought to be commemorated. I would do away with it and its attendant memories, if I could. But I won't dwell on that. I am not writing to stew in self-abasement. We have found our way back to each other. And because you have a superhuman capacity for love, generosity, forgiveness, and strength, we are very very happy. Thank you, John. Thank you for our lives together. Thank you for our family. I am privileged, delighted, ecstatic, to live the rest of my days at your side. I love you.

Yours forever,  
Sherlock


	8. Chapter 8

“All right, Tillie, Bab and me will be back to bring you home at lunch time. It seems really far away, but it’s only a few hours. What do you want for your lunch?” Matilda doesn’t answer. She’s looking down at her shoes, which Sherlock painted for her so that they look like bees. First day of reception treat. “Matilda?” I squeeze her hand.  
She doesn’t look up, “Not a sandwich.” Glance at Sherlock over her head, and he’s pressing his lips together to muffle a laugh.  
“Right, got it. No sandwich. Maybe soup, then. Chef Daddy will sort something out.” Matilda shrugs, and I glance at Sherlock again. My own mild alarm is reflected back to me in his face. I squeeze her hand again, “You okay, Tillie?”  
Matilda taps the yellow toes of her little bee shoes together a few times, then looks up at me, “Do you know all your alphabets, Daddy?”  
I smile, “Yes, love, every last one of them.”  
She looks over at Sherlock, “And you, Bab? You know your letters and things?”  
Sherlock drops to one knee and stoops forward so that their faces are level, “We can’t come in with you, Tillie, my love. This is a special adventure just for you.” There’s that softness in his voice that I can still scarcely hear without going a bit leaky. I look away and try not to sniffle out loud. Sherlock’s soft voice continues, “It’s going to be such a lovely adventure, Tillie. You’re going to learn all your letters and numbers and shapes and colours.”  
I sniffle hard, “And the solar system.”  
Sherlock looks over his shoulder to glare at me, then laughs, “Yes, the solar system.” He turns back to Matilda, “And you’ll sing and play games and make all sorts of art. And you might do fancy dress and go on outings and have a class pet. And you’ll make all sorts of wonderful friends. There’s nothing like learning, Tillie. It’s one of the best things in the world. And you’re brilliant at it. You’re going to have lots of fun, and then come home and teach me and Daddy all about what you’ve found out.” Sherlock leans in and kisses Matilda on the cheek, and she nods reluctantly and toys with his lapel.  
“Won’t you be lonely without me, Bab?”  
Sherlock laughs and hugs her, “I will miss you, Tillie of course I will! But we’ll see you in a few hours, yes?”  
Matilda nods, looking brighter, “Can we go in now?”  
“Of course,” Sherlock rises and offers his hand, and Matilda reaches out for me with her other hand and tows us rather imperiously into her classroom. Matilda’s already met her teacher, Miss Green, who’s about half my age and still gives the air of profound unflappability. Sherlock and I sort of fade toward the back of the classroom as Miss Green shows Matilda and a small cluster of other children around the room.  
Sherlock reaches for my hand and swipes my palm with his thumb as we watch them, “They seem to be taking to each other,” he nods toward the group. “Don’t you think?”  
“Eh? I suppose so, yeah.”  
Sherlock squeezes my hand quite hard, “Difficult to predict who her friends will be. At this point.”  
“Well it’ll fluctuate, I expect.” I press Sherlock’s hand in return, “You know what kids are like,” Matilda glances back at us, and we wave.  
Sherlock shrugs, “I don’t, actually.”  
I look at him properly, and I can see the tension in his shoulders now, “She’s going to be okay,” I whisper. “Don’t worry.”  
Sherlock squeezes my hand almost painfully hard, “She ought to have better than okay.”  
“Sherlock,” I wait for him to meet my eye, “She’s going to be brilliant. She’s ours, yeah?”  
Sherlock nods, “Right, yes. Of course you’re right. Yes, brilliant. She’s ours.”


	9. Chapter 9

“DADDY!” Matilda comes hurdling toward me and throws herself against my legs, clonking her head on my knee. As usual, she doesn’t seem to mind.  
I glance round to see a librarian glaring at us, “Careful, Tillie and quietly in the library. Where’s your Bab?” Matilda tries to answer me, but she’s clamped one hand over her mouth, muffling herself completely.  
“Here I am,” Sherlock’s stage whisper floats to us from across the room. I look up again, and he’s trying to get out of one of those tiny bucket chairs they’ve put out for kids to sit in while they read. The chair is rather winning the fight against Sherlock and his dignity.  
I grin and Matilda and I go to help him up, “You were telling me something, Tillie?” I remind her when we’ve got Sherlock out of the chair.  
“We found a book about me!” Matilda answers in a whisper that’s more like a shout.  
I laugh, “Is that so?”  
Matilda dances about with glee and tugs on Sherlock’s trouser leg, “Show him, Bab!”  
“Gently Matilda,” Sherlock strokes her arm, then holds up a copy of Roald Dahl’s Matilda.  
I’m duly impressed, “Tillie, can you read your name? That’s amazing!”  
Matilda hops on the spot, nodding like a bouncing ball, “It’s got an M in it and,” she waves a hand, “other things. M for me! M for Matilda!”  
“M for Matilda,” Sherlock agrees. “Do you want to take it out?”  
“Please please please please pleeeeease!” Matilda carries on hopping, looking back and forth between me and Sherlock and clasping her hands in supplication.”  
“Of course, Tillie, of course you can.” I take the book from Sherlock, “Here I’ll go to the desk. Why don’t you and Bab go and wait for me outside, and you can dance out some of these giddies, mm?”  
“Thank you!” Matilda hops a few more times, then grabs Sherlock by the hand and tows him toward the exit to do just that.


	10. Chapter 10

“Goodness!” get out my phone at once and take a photo of Mycroft and Matilda. I’ve sent it to John and Mummy before Mycroft even has the chance to glare and sigh. “What a pretty picture we have here.” Mycroft and Matilda are sat on the floor, amidst an array of Matilda’s favourite hair ornaments and a few pots of John’s hair product. Surprisingly, Mycroft looks only mildly put upon.  
Matilda abandons the brush she’s still pulling through Mycroft’s barretted hair and bounds across the room to launch herself at my leg, “Bab!”  
I scoop her up and hug her, “Are you having fun with Uncle Mycroft, Tillie?”  
“We’re playing hairdresser!” she chirps.  
“So you are! And look what a lovely job you’ve done with Uncle Mycroft, too, darling. His hair hasn’t looked so good since the nineties.”  
“Thank you, Sherlock,” Mycroft rises from the floor, stretches, and looks into the mirror over the mantel, “Good lord, I look exactly like Uncle Rudy.”  
“I was just going to say.” I kiss Matilda on the cheek, “Tillie, invite your uncle to stay for dinner.”  
“Yeah!” Matilda shouts. “Yeah yeah yeah! Please Uncle Mycroft!” She squirms out of my arms to tug Mycroft’s sleeve.  
“Gently please, Matilda,” I remind her. “And a touch quieter.”  
Mycroft pats Matilda’s shoulder, “Thank you, Tillie, I will stay. I suppose I am already dressed for dinner.”


	11. Chapter 11

“Good,” Sherlock nodded. “Very good. You’re improving every single time. Mind your arms, though. You flapped a bit right at the end.”  
Matilda nodded seriously, “Arms, yes. Should I do it again from the top, Bab?”  
“Sure, in a moment. Try your bow first.”  
Matilda nodded again, then pranced forward, her face lit with serene exultation. She swept one arm overhead and bowed low, holding the pose for a long moment. Then she came up and gestured to Sherlock. He grinned broadly and tapped his bow on his music stand. Still beaming, Matilda raised both arms high, lowered them, and bowed again, so low that her bun pointed straight at Sherlock.  
She popped up, grinning and hopped on the spot, “How was that, Bab?”  
“Perfect, Tillie. It was perfect.”


	12. Chapter 12

“Don’t think I don’t know when I’m being stared at, John Watson,” Sherlock said, offering Matilda a slice of banana.  
“No!” Matilda turned her head away and pointed to the rest of the banana in Sherlock’s hand.  
“How do you ask nicely, Tillie?” Sherlock prompted.  
Matilda considered a moment, “Please?”  
“Very nice,” Sherlock said, handing her the banana.  
“Thank you,” she whispered.  
“You’re welcome.” Sherlock smiled at Matilda and watched her carefully raise the banana to her mouth before he cocked his head over his shoulder at me, one eyebrow raised, “You’re still staring, and I’m still noticing, John.”  
I chinned my hand and grinned at him. “I like to watch you together. You’ve got, ah, chemistry.”  
Sherlock looked at Matilda, “We’re good chums, aren’t we, Tillie?” Matilda offered a bite of her banana by way of answer, and Sherlock bit in happily and looked back at me to smile, still chewing.  
I laughed and leaned forward to kiss him, “Plus you’ve got pancake batter in your hair.”


End file.
